In the dim-
dark unnatural
light I watch
your oxygen
levels fluctuate
as you battle
to breathe
and hold
your icy
hand flanked
by mine, trying
to rub
life and
warmth into
your surprisingly
tiny digits.
Even retaining
fluid, your
fingers remain
delicate—
the nails
neat and
short, although
ghostly pale;
the lunula
crouched
at the base
of each
perfect nail
almost
invisible against
your pallor.
My own
arthritic
pair seem
outsized;
the gangly
veins
roaming
green
and helter-
skelter,
unchecked;
a rough map
of my life so
far; when you
stop, will
they?
